


They Weren't My Shoes Anyway

by Alois_Zirconia



Category: Original Work
Genre: Action, Bombings, Gen, Intrigue, It will probably make you smile, Oops, Shitty start though, Urban, i guess, mysteriousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-10
Updated: 2015-12-10
Packaged: 2018-05-06 01:28:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5397755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alois_Zirconia/pseuds/Alois_Zirconia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oh my god, guys, this makes me smile so much. I wrote this in one sitting, but some of the paragraphs here are SO cringeworthy. Ugh. For me, at least, it gets AWESOME at the end, so please wait it out.</p><p>I would appreciate it greatly if you read this, and maybe even liked it. It won't take up much of your time, after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	They Weren't My Shoes Anyway

**Author's Note:**

> Just to remind you: SO shitty start. I dunno. It depends.

I'm walking towards him, and my heart is beating. A quick rhythm, only interrupted by the sound of my harsh breathing. I walk quickly; one, two, one, two. He looks up with wonderfully blue eyes, vivid like the summer sky, and stares at me. I walk faster, and I'm weaving my way through the busy crowd, scurrying away. He looks conflicted, and looks to the side, as if wondering if he should run. As if wondering if he could run. Innocent in a way, he sits there, clad only in a hoodie, jeans and a cap. I reach him.

We stand there for a couple of seconds, and he looks confused, but avoids my gaze. He's looking down, mostly. I'm panting. "What's your shoe size?" I rasp out, wishing for a glass of water. His eyes snap up to meet mine, and he looks disbelieving. "What?" He whispers, voice just as ragged as mine. His shirt is fraying at the edges, and he's picking at them again. I haven't been watching him for more than a few minutes, so I can only assume it's again, but that's what I do.

"What's your shoe size," I repeat awkwardly, slightly louder. I shouldn't have come here. I've fucked up. I sigh, ready to turn away. This was a mistake. I get halfway there before he mutters something. I turn back, lamely, and stare at him. He's picking on the frayed hoodie again. I'm such an idiot, I hear, hanging in the air. We stand there for a while, until I realize I have to ask him again. "What?" I say, belatedly. He looks up.

"I'm a size nine," he says louder, as if he is copying what I did a minute ago. I can almost taste his embarrassment. Could he sense mine? I feel my eyebrows climbing steadily upwards. A size nine? That's almost too perfect. "Well, uh," I wave around the plastic H&M's bag in my hand, "I've got some shoes for ya."

God, but if that sounds cheesy. I've got some shoes for ya! Now hop in the van, son! I sigh, and let the bag hang by my side. He looks up at me, and I'm astounded again. With eyes like that you'd think he'd have a job. Maybe as a model. He truly ain't bad, I think, as I look him once over. He blushes, and a pink tongue darts out to wet dry lips. I hesitate. "Would you..uh, like them?" I repeat, rustling the bag a bit. His eyes flicker over at it. I feel like an idiot. He must think the same, for his eyes flicker a couple times between my face, the bag and his bare feet.

Eventually, he nods. "Yeah," he agrees, "but they prob'ly ain't gonna be used for long." I feel curiosity spark in my chest. "Why not?" He quickly backtracks. "It's not that I ain't grateful," he speaks, with his southern accent, "but they're coming to pick me up." I frown. "Who?" He was on the street, so if somebody cared, he'd be at home, reading a book or some shit.

He just smiles a bit absently. "They are," and before I can ask who the hell 'they' are, his pupils shrink. Not, like, tug a bit, I mean shrink so much I can clearly see it decreasing in size from where I'm standing, a bit off. He gasps, and his hands grip the frayed ends tightly. I try to ask what's wrong, but he interrupts me. "You need to leave," he says, in an - interestingly enough - calm voice. He's staring intently at me, and a weird feeling rushes over me. It's like I'm slowly being disconnected from my own body.

My frown deepens. "What are y-" "On your left," he says, pointing - duh - to my left. I look over, and everything looks normal. Loads of people, going in whichever way they need to go to reach their destination. Work, friends, family, all waiting. There's nothing out of the usual. "Are y-" when I turn back, he's holding out a slip of folded notebook paper. There's a number on it, written in scratchy pen. 

Without thinking, I grab it. "When you come home, ring 'em." I nod, too dazed to do anything else. How weird. Just a moment ago I was feeling fine. Now my vision seems blurry, and it's like my brain is blacking out, but refusing to let my body go. And how does he know I'm going home anyway? I look up, and he's nodding. To what, I don't know. "Now go," he says softly, and grabs my elbow gently. Without standing up, he pushes me in that direction. "Go," he repeats, and in my daze I am too tired to argue. I look back, and he's waving, a serene smile on his face. Such a character change. On the outside of the note, there's a quick message; over the street. That's all it says. I shake my head, fix my eyes on the road, and slip over. When I reach the other side, I stop next to a McDonalds. People are rushing past me, in and out the doors of shops. Maybe if I'm dr-

An explosion knocks me forward, face crashing into the asphalt. Pieces of glass rain down from the sky and drums the back of my head. My body feels numb, and my ears are ringing. Eyes are watering with tears that run down my cheek when I try to sit up. Glass cuts bitterly into my hands as I look behind me.

It must have been a bomb. Judging from the damage, I was just far enough away to have escaped with only the shock wave. It looks worse a few streets down, and further away I see smoke, rising from between the shattered glass of skyscrapers. I know that the windows over me shattered too, but I'm afraid to look up. There's no glass in my eyes yet, and it'll remain so. The ringing in my ears blend with the car alarms going haywire, and a bit dazedly I feel something running down the sides of my head. I can't tell it from the blood on my hands. Nothing hurts, but it must be the adrenaline.

He's dead. It's the first thought that hits my mind when I look over, and takes over all of the others. He's dead. Sprawled in an awkward position, one arm bent under him. He's dead. There's no blood pooling on the ground like it does in movies, but his face is torn up by scratches. I shouldn't care, but I find that I do, no matter how briefly we met. He's dead, he's staring right at me, and his eyes doesn't seem so blue anymore.

In a fell swoop, everything catches up to me. The no-name man, the explosion, the note. I look at the smashed McDonalds, and I run. From everything. I run, and my feet slap on the ground. I run, for my car I left parked around the corner. My lungs are burning, even though it's only been a few streets up. My eyes are burning too. Burning hard, while drops turn cold as they hesitate, then jump down my chin, staining my pants. I grab my keys frantically, and I drive home.

As I reach the small flat, a bit on the outside of town, I collapse. Not mentally - yet - though, but I sink down under the counter in my small kitchen. It's lit up with only the light flowing through the windows, and everything white looks cold. If thieves were here, they'd never find me, I think a bit randomly. Very randomly. The counter has a small space under it, a hidden closet, just big enough for one. I know the door slides soundlessly.

But this is no time for hiding. I get up, shakily and unsteadily, and make my way to the bedroom. Inside, the air is clingy and stained, not easing when I turn on the lights. My feet are prickling over the chill of the uncarpeted floor. The oak is hard, and almost seems unnaturally straight. I reach my bed, and bounce a bit on the bedsprings as I sit down. Shakily, I grab my phone from my pocket. It has a couple cracks now, but works fine. I unlock it. My contact list only has Anna, Work and Mom on it. I tap in the number. Hands hesitate, as I turn it over in my mind. I got a number, from a homeless guy, and I'm actually calling it? I don't need to explain my hesitation.

Eventually I end up calling it, simply because I have nothing better to do. There's been a fucking explosion, and I don't know what to do. Shouldn't school have prepared us for something like this? At least I know what to do when there's a fire, I think, as the ringing stops. I bring the phone up to my ear with shaky hands. 

"H-hello?" It comes out meeker than I would have liked. There's silence, not even clutter on the other end. You would have thought the phone lines were damaged, but no. "I, um, got this number." Fuck. "From, uh, I actually don't know. But don't shoot me," I add quickly - stupidly - enough. I feel it necessary to add something, so I mutter, "Even though you can't really shoot me over the phone."

In the background, there's a rustle. Not anything significant, just something like a plastic bag being wrinkled, but it urges me on. To tell, to hurry, to listen. I clear my throat. It feels a bit dry, and though I would have gotten a glass of water, it somehow feels rude. I don't even know if the pipes are working anymore.

"Anyway," I continue, "This guy. Uhm, he gave me a number." And I'm repeating myself. Idiot. I hurry on. "He told me to call. I..." Fuck. "I did," I say, slightly insane, and a low giggle erupts. And there's the adrenaline withdrawal, I think, as I roll my eyes. If that's a thing. "I just really hope someone's listening to this." I sigh. And then I'm sitting there, partly talking to myself, with only what seems like a plastic bag at the other end listening.

The rustle comes again, as if urging me on. Actually, that's probably what it's doing. It worked before, so why shouldn't it now? But that means there's someone doing it. It means there's someone at the other end, listening to me. "So I don't really know what to say," I finish lamely, as if that somehow excuses that I spent - I look at the time - about three minutes talking to a seemingly mute person with a plastic bag. I sigh, and look at the time. A minute passes. Two. I sit there, waiting for nothing. Then I rip the phone away from my ear, ready to press the end call button. This was a flunk - a mistake, and I should just end it now, before I embarrass myself further.

Then there's a laugh. Relieved, streaming through the air. There's sniffs, mutters and whispers, from people of all ages and countries. I didn't accidentally call an international spybase, did I? Please tell me he didn't somehow give me the number to the UN, I think, and stare down at the phone in my hands. The muttering is getting louder. 

Suddenly, over the line, there's a pair of claps, and everyone shuts up. It eases the migraine I see coming in a couple minutes. The voice, saturated the closest to the phone at the other end, laughs. A clear laugh. Then he - it must be a he - says it. The first thing that's ever said between me and The Nile Line, otherwise known as The Crackers.

"He's alive. It worked!"

**Author's Note:**

> Also, it gets clearer if you have the italics in there, but they don't show up in HTML, and Rich Text fucks up the whole thing. Sorry :/


End file.
